


Refer to Reality

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Humor, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-24
Updated: 2006-09-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Prompt: 158. Sam and Dean doing each other's homework: Sam doing the stuff that Dean's weaker at, and Dean doing the stuff that Sam's weaker at.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** Refer to Reality  
**Author:** Impertinence  
**Rating:** Adult  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Prompt: 158.** Sam and Dean doing each other’s homework: Sam doing the stuff that Dean's weaker at, and Dean doing the stuff that Sam's weaker at.  
  
  
  
||  
  
The problem is that Sam’s really bad at math.  
  
It’s not like he does it on _purpose._ If he had his way then he’d be at the top of his class. And, well—he is. But it’s not really because of anything he does.  
  
The sad, dirty truth is that Sam’s a sophomore in high school, and Dean…  
  
Dean _tutors_ him.  
  
But it’s not his fault. Not really. Because Dean’s weirdly good with numbers, but history is Sam’s favorite subject and Dean’s failing it, so they’re more or less even.   
  
“Okay, so in 1917 the Eighteenth Amendment was passed. What did it prohibit?”  
  
Sam taps his pencil on the desk as he waits for Dean to answer. Dean’s brow is furrowed, and his (girly, but Sam doesn’t let himself think that) lips are pressed into a thin, tight line. “Uh.”  
  
“C’mon, Dean, I gave you a hint and everything.”  
  
Sam knows he’s made a mistake the second he says it, because Dean tosses the pink eraser at his head. “Hey!”  
  
“I’m not _stupid,_ Sam.”  
  
“You are with history.”  
  
Dean snorts. “Oh, please. What’s the square root of 169?”  
  
Sam can’t answer, so he settles for glaring.  
  
“Thirteen, numbnuts.” Dean smirks. “See? We’re both idiots.”  
  
“Whatever.” Sam throws the book down. “We’re doomed. I’m going to fail Calculus, you’re going to fail US History…”  
  
“You know, the fact that you’re _in_ Calculus at the ripe old age of sixteen kind of speaks for itself.”   
  
“You’re skipping most of US History,” Sam grumbles.  
  
“Fine, so we’re smart failures.” Dean leans forward, determination plain on his face. “Let’s just do this, okay?”  
  
“Right.” Sam takes a deep, calming breath. “Okay, when did Lincoln give the Gettysburg Address?”  
  
||  
  
Time passing doesn’t help Sam feel any better about Dean tutoring him. Eventually he finds someone else to do it, a guy from his Calculus class named Terry. He’s nice and patient, and it really doesn’t hurt that he’s both older than Sam and kind of cute.  
  
Hey, at least Sam _knows_ he’s hopeless.  
  
The lessons start out innocent and easy. They meet in the library every day after school three times a week, and in between ranting about how much he hates calculus and curtailing bad thoughts about Terry’s amused smiles (because, okay, he _is_ in the class a few years early, but it still shouldn’t be this hard), they end up getting to the point where Sam doesn’t really need help any more.  
  
So one day, after he’s solved all of the example problems with ease, Terry leans back in his chair and says, “Sam, I don’t think you really need a tutor any more.”  
  
“Um.” Now he’s _blushing_. Crap. “I just. I kind of…” _like you._ Except he can’t say that, because how lame is admitting you like another guy? He’s not a _girl._  
  
But to his shock, Terry brushes a finger against his hair. “Yeah, me too.” His smile turns rueful. “But man, your brother would _kill_ me.”  
  
Sam just shrugs. “He’s probably fucking his new history tutor.”  
  
The jealousy is obvious to him the second he opens his mouth, so to cover it up he adds, “And anyway, he’s always telling me I need to get laid.”  
  
Wow, okay, that wasn’t really what he’d meant to say. But the way Terry’s eyes widen tell him that he’s very close to…something.  
  
“So,” he breathes, and lets himself reach out and lay a hand on Terry’s shoulder. “You wanna…?”  
  
There’s a second where he’s sure Terry will refuse, and his stomach sinks because he’s made such an idiot out of himself—but then Terry takes a deep breathe and nods.  
  
Sam can’t help but smirk a little. “Thought so.”  
  
“Where?” Terry’s eyes look almost like they’re glinting. He wants this, has wanted it, and the knowledge gives Sam the guts to pull him out to the Impala and shove him into the backseat.  
  
||  
  
Dean’s coming back from one of his tutoring sessions—or one of his “fucking his tutor while she gasps out dates and names” sessions, but the first one sounds classier—when he notices the Impala rocking.  
  
His first thought is _oh shit, it’s possessed._ Which is completely unfuckingfair, because they’ve already gone through the whole possessed car thing once this year. Twice is a bit excessive even for them.  
  
But then he notices the shapes inside, the slight rocking of the car, and the steamed windows. Unless it’s a really fucking horny spirit, Dean’s pretty sure he’s dealing with plain old horny people.  
  
Hindsight being 20/20, he’ll look back and realize how incredibly dense he was being, but when he walks over and wrenches the right-hand passenger side door open, it doesn’t occur to him till he looks inside that the one of the horny people might be his brother.  
  
Sammy. Sam. Giving his tutor a _blowjob_.  
  
Holy fucking _shit._  
  
He pops a woody and almost breaks his brain, in that order. Sam’s kneeled on the floor of the Impala, bony legs sticking out at weird angles. His tutor—older guy, freakishly buff—has his head, his greasy nasty head, thrown back against the Impala’s pure leather seats.  
  
Oh, hell no. “Excuse me,” Dean says loudly, ignoring the fact that the sight of his brother’s lips around some other guy’s cock is about to make him embarrass himself and cause untold emotional trauma to everyone involved, “what the fuck is going on here?”  
  
Sam freezes and Dean realizes, with a flash of awareness that’s like being hit with lightning or licked from head to toe, that Sam hadn’t even noticed the door opening.  
  
All that attention, all the brains that got him into Calculus in the first place, all focused on Dean’s dick…  
  
Dean grips the side of the car hard enough for the cold metal to bite into his palm. When he focuses on the inside again he sees the tutor smirking at him.  
  
What a fucking bastard.  
  
“You,” he says roughly, jerking a thumb to the side. “Out. Now.”  
  
Tutor Guy hesitates, like he actually thinks Dean won’t drag him out and rip his limbs off and _pummel him to death,_ but apparently Sam recognizes the look on his face because he leans back and says quietly, “You’d better go.”  
  
So Tutor Guy yanks up his pants and hauls up his zipper— _hope he slices his cock off,_ Dean thinks vindictively—and high tails it out of there like Dean’s set the seat of his pants on fire.  
  
Which, hey, not a bad idea.  
  
“Stop it.”  
  
Dean’s attention snaps back to Sam. “Stop what?”  
  
Sam raises a hand—skinny, weirdly fragile, almost a girl’s hand except not—and points to where Tutor Guy’s running off as fast as his (stumpy) legs will carry him. “You just ruined that on purpose!”  
  
“You were giving your _tutor_ a _blowjob!_ ”  
  
“Oh, please.” Sam squinches his face up. “You seduced your Spanish teacher last year.”  
  
Mm, yeah, that’d been fun.   
  
Wait, hang on. “That’s not the point! You were blowing a guy _in my car._ ” And looking damn good doing it…but no. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts. Dean settles for glaring.  
  
Apparently his glare is a hell of a lot more formidable than he thought it was, because Sam crumples against the seat. “I’m sorry, okay?” he says defensively. “I didn’t know you’d have such a huge problem with it.”  
  
Dean actually feels his mouth fall open. “Are you retarded?” he demands. “Of course I have a problem with you blowing some guy in my car!”  
  
Sam’s too-thin body is set stubbornly, his fists clenched on the bench seat. “So if I was fucking a _girl_ you’d be fine with it, is that it?”  
  
It’s like a slap to the face—Dean recoils, his entire brain grinding to a halt. Sam thought this was about the _gay_ thing?   
  
“No, actually, I’d kick your ass.” His tones are measured. Calm. Because hey, if Sam hasn’t figure out that he’s not the first Winchester son to suck some dick in the back of the Impala, Dean’s certainly not going to tell him. “You don’t get to have sex in my car, Sam.”  
  
“But—I thought—“  
  
Jesus Christ, the kid was thick. “Were you just _dead_ when those rumors in Alabama went around?” Sam had been in eighth grade, just old enough to hear the stories about his older brother Jacob Meyer getting caught giving blowjobs in the bathroom for homework services. In retrospect it’s a pretty embarrassing memory, but hey—it’d been fun. No harm, no foul.  
  
“I. Wait.” Sam’s eyes bug out, almost cartoonish. “They were _true?_ ”  
  
Dean just folds his arms and arches a brow.  
  
“They _were!_ You—and—with—“  
  
“I bat for both teams,” Dean supplied. Sam shut up, face flushing dark red. “So, yeah. Fuck all the guys you want, just don’t do it in my _car,_ twerp.”  
  
And that, Dean thinks, is the end of that.  
  
||  
  
Only it’s not.   
  
Dean thinks he must’ve been jerking off in the bathroom when God handed out morals, because for the next week or so the only thing he thinks about is the fact that Sam spent the better part of Friday afternoon sucking cock in the very spot that Dean’s now staring at.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
He jerks his head up. Jenni Marks—blonde, not too bright, _fantastic_ tits. Any other day Dean’d be all over it, but right now all he can think about is that Sam’s sucked cock but he’s probably never seen a girl naked.  
  
Jesus.  
  
When he and Sam get home exactly one week after the Blowjob Incident, as Dean’s taken to thinking of it, Sam hoists his bag awkwardly on his shoulder and says, “Um. I think I’d better go—Terry and I usually meet around 4.”  
  
“You’re not going anywhere,” Dean says calmly.  
  
Sam freezes. “Excuse me, what?”  
  
“I called Dad. He agreed that I should be the one tutoring you.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“So,” Dean finishes, unable to keep the grin from his face, “let’s get to work.”  
  
Sam, of course, punches him.  
  
||  
  
“You’re a dumbass.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. “Can you give the bitterness a break? Jesus, if you want me to show you some spots at school where you can blow your boyfr—“  
  
The history book hits Dean squarely in the forehead. “You _bastard!_ ” Sam yells, jumping on him, and Dean’s in enough pain (on _both_ heads, goddammit) that he doesn’t even make a South Park joke.  
  
“Get the fuck off me, idiot!” He pushes Sam off, slamming him down on the floor. Sam lands with a solid _thwump_ , rattling the dirty dishes in the sink.  
  
Dean pounces, grabbing Sam’s arms and rolling them under the table. This, unlike most of the past week, feels normal and familiar—right up until Sam’s hips buck under his and he feels his brother’s dick against his thigh.  
  
They both freeze. Sam’s breathing quickly, Dean abruptly realizes, and right alongside the anger in his eyes is fear. Fear of…  
  
Aw, crap.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says quietly, but Sam’s pushing at his shoulders with anger in his eyes.   
  
“Let me go! Dean, I have to—just let me go.”  
  
Sam’s getting big but he’s still gangly, so when Dean pushes down on his shoulders they connect with the floor and stay that way. Sam settles for shoving his jaw in the air, defiance written all over his face.  
  
“Just—stop for a second, okay?” Dean moves to the side a bit, holding himself up by his knees. “I—shit. Jesus.”  
  
“It was completely random, I swear.” Earnest, hopeful look. _Fuck._ There’s only so much one person can take.  
  
“It—I just, I’ve been having trouble with it lately,” Sam continues, “but it’s not the way it looks, it’s not _you._ I’m not a pervert.”  
  
Dean chokes down a laugh. No, Sam’s not the perverted one. That, apparently, is all Dean.  
  
“—forget about this, then—Dean?” Sam breaks off and wiggles his shoulders. This time Dean lets him sit up and touch Dean’s arm tentatively. “Oh crap. Are you—did I send you into shock?”  
  
“Not exactly.” Fuck. How’s he going to get out of this without—oh, _shit._  
  
Sam’s been babbling about leaving Dean alone and how sorry he is, like he thinks he’s the cause of Dean’s imminent nervous breakdown or something, and in the process of trying to get out he’s landed splayed across Dean’s lap with Dean’s hard-on poking him in the stomach.  
  
For a second it feels like the world stops and Dean’s thinking frantically that maybe they’re going to just fall right off the planet, because isn’t gravity part of the whole world turning thing, but then Sam licks his lips and says, “Oh,” and Dean’s brain screeches to a halt.  
  
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Oh.”  
  
“I didn’t—I should probably—um,” Sam says desperately.  
  
There are plenty of logical things Dean could do, and he knows it. He could push Sam off and gently but firmly explain that they didn’t live in Ancient Egypt (thus making Sam extremely happy that he’d been paying attention to his history lessons), or he could push Sam off and call him a sicko (guaranteeing years of therapy in Sam’s future, but it was a small price to pay for something approaching normalcy), or he could scream like a girl (humiliating, but almost worth it just to see the look on Sam’s face). The one thing that he knows he _shouldn’t_ do is lean up and kiss Sam hard enough to make all thoughts of that pussy Terry fly out of his head. Or his dick.  
  
So of course that’s what he does. Logic, who needs it?  
  
Sam makes a surprised “Mmmpf!” kind of noise when Dean grabs his head, then a moan in the back of his throat when Dean kisses him—and then he’s entirely silent when his lips fall open and Dean’s tongue slips in between them.  
  
Because—fuck yeah. This is what he’s wanted, what he’s fucking _dreamed_ about, and getting confirmation that Sam’s just as much of a perv as he is feels like jumping off a cliff and sprouting wings.  
  
Only a lot less poetic, because Dean sucks dick but he’s not a _fag._  
  
Eventually they both have to breathe, so Sam pulls back, resting his forehead to Dean’s. They’re both breathing like a demon tried to drown them, and Sam’s fingers are curled at the back of Dean’s neck, caressing his hair there—and hey, that’s a _great_ idea, so Dean cups the back of Sam’s head and pulls him to the side, kissing his neck and grinding his dick against Dean’s hipbone.  
  
“Shit,” Sam hisses, arching back. His hair is silky—L’Oreal, Dean thinks almost hysterically. Jesus, he’s gayified his brother.  
  
“Wait—you stopped.” Sam’s fingers suddenly freeze in his hair. “Why’d you stop? Please don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts, because it took me a week to stop being freaked out about it, and a week is a long time to wonder if some incest-hating god is going to make your dick fall off—“  
  
“Sam.”  
  
Sam’s jaw snaps shut with an audible _click._ Dean pulls back far enough to look at him—his hair is messed up, his lips are swollen, and the hickey Dean was working on is progressing well.  
  
“Jesus, this is clichéd,” Dean says.  
  
Sam’s grin is crooked and wry. “When was the last time you saw two brothers making out on the WB?”  
  
“I can’t believe you even watch that shit.”  
  
“Says the guy who thinks “Saturday Night Live” is the greatest thing since sliced bread.”  
  
“Hey, SNL is—“  
  
“Completely asinine,” Sam says bitchily, and of course Dean has to lean up and kiss him, because…  
  
Because it’s _Sam,_ and Sam will be bitchy until the day he dies (please not too soon), and Dean’s—it’s important.   
  
“Oh. Oh fuck,” Sam gasps out. It’s not the first time Dean’s heard him say it, but—  
  
“Hang on,” Dean says, pulling back till he’s leaning against a cabinet. Sam’s still _grinding_ against him, and this is going to be over way too soon if they don’t slow down.  
  
Sam’s face falls. “Did I. I mean, did we—“  
  
“No. No, it’s just.” Dean gives him a lopsided grin. “I’m about to come all over the fucking place.”  
  
_Still_ is hiding in the bushes when there’s a pack of werewolves five feet away. _Still_ is stalking a ghost that’ll kill you, literally, as soon as look at you. But Sam doesn’t just go still—he _freezes_ so completely that for a second Dean thinks, panicked, that he somehow managed to turn Sam to stone.  
  
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam gasps, and then he’s moving again, grinding against Dean, heedless of the consequences. “Don’t—don’t _say_ that.”  
  
“Why?” Dean grips Sam’s hips and pulls him down almost painfully, dropping his forehead against Sam’s. “Are you about to come, too? Gonna embarrass yourself?”  
  
Sam’s fingers—slim, almost delicate, used to gun mechanisms and pencils and pianos—find their way inside his pants, warm dry rough skin all over him, rubbing and pulling and cupping and—  
  
_God._  
  
Dean lets out a choked moan, gasping in air as he clutches Sam’s hips and comes, and for a second he has a frenzied idea that Sam’s a vampire or a succubus or something, because this is too damned perfect to even be real.   
  
But then Sam yanks Dean’s hand down to Sam’s dick, and Dean wraps his hand around it almost automatically, until Sam’s convulsing and moaning and it’s not automatic at all, it’s _Sam_ , and it’s.  
  
Perfect is the wrong word to use because nothing, nothing that’s perfect ever lasts, but it’s the word that stays in Dean’s mind when they collapse together, right there on the kitchen floor.  
  
||  
  
“So,” Sam says, several hours of awkward studying and much less awkward sex later. “Are we…I mean, do we…”  
  
Dean pokes Sam’s dick, snorting out a laugh at the face Sam makes. “Not a one-time thing,” he says.  
  
Every single muscle in Sam’s body relaxes, and he lets out a long, loud sigh of relief. Dean almost wants to feel embarrassed for him, except that he feels the same way.  
  
“This is kind of insane,” Sam adds. His fingers are tracing invisible patterns all over Dean’s skin, his hair, even the sheet. Any other time it would annoy the hell out of Dean, but right now he’s feeling nice to the point of wondering when the bodysnatchers invaded.  
  
He twists up to look Sam in the eye. “Since when has anything we’ve done, ever, made sense in a sane way?” he asks, and Sam laughs.  
  
||  
  
Because he is who he is, Sam can’t help but wonder what’d happen if Dad came storming through the door right now.  
  
A bunch of yelling, probably, and accusations, and maybe an exorcism or two, because there’s no way Dad would just assume that this is the natural course of things. Sam doesn’t blame him, since not only is it not exactly normal to be gay (or bi, or bicurious, or whatthefuckever—there are, Sam’s decided, more important things than labels right now), but it’s also definitely not normal to be screwing your brother.  
  
Or, in their case, humping.  
  
Dean’s gone to sleep now, his arms wrapped around Sam’s chest. Sam’d like to say he’s never thought about this—wondered if Dean’s a cuddler or the roll-over-and-snore type—but he’d be a liar. Sam’s got vague memories of Dean holding him, rocking him to sleep, and the reality here is better than the memories and fulfills the barely thought of hope that Dean would want to stay with him even after they’re…finished.  
  
When he’s awake, Dean fucking _hates_ emotion. He’d mock Sam relentlessly for stroking his hair or shifting to make his head more comfortable against Sam’s chest. But Sam does, and then he smiles, because this—it’s not natural, nothing they do is, but it’s _normal._  
  
Okay is a lot to ask for, for Sam. Okay would be settling down, not hunting, knowing that Dad doesn’t go out and wave a gun at evil supernatural beings on a regular basis. But, Sam thinks groggily as he winds his fingers in Dean’s hair and slowly falls asleep, this—here, together—this is something close to okay. Enough, maybe. Good enough.  
  
||  
  
“Hey, lazybones, wake up.”  
  
Sam grunts.  
  
“Saaaaaammy,” Dean signs, lobbing a stuffed cow at his head. “Spam-boy, Samcakes, Samaaaaantha. It’s morning time!”  
  
Sam lifts his head for a moment and glares at Dean balefully. “I hate you.”  
  
“Love you too, Viagra-boy.”  
  
Sam blinks in confusion, but—oh. Spam. “That’s not funny,” he says automatically, except it sort of _is_ , so he settles on tackling Dean and kissing him roughly. Morning breath, hah!  
  
When the world’s stopped spinning, Dean flicks a piece of Sam’s hair and says, “So, what’s the sine of 90 degrees?”  
  
“One,” Sam replies automatically. “What was the name of the decisive battle William the Conqueror fought in England?”  
  
“The Battle of Hastings, dumbfuck.” But despite the words, Dean strokes his toes up Sam’s calf.  
  
“You know,” Sam says, sliding his hand down, “I kinda like this.”  
  
Dean’s laugh is harsh, breathless. “Yeah,” he says, “me too.”  
  
||  
  
End  
  
||  
  
Title source: "As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality." - Albert Einstein


End file.
